


moderation

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: A - Freeform, Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Azim Steppe (Final Fantasy XIV), Body Worship, Coming In Pants, Explicit Consent, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Kneeling, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Power Dynamics, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Role Reversal, Stepping kink, Throne Sex, is that a thing???, me??? making references to canon gods in the middle of a sex scene??? yes, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-12-25 16:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18265157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: For all his resistance, Magnai gives into pleasure all too easily.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me @ me: why are you this thirsty kiri???? ain't anyone told you about w a t e r ?????
> 
> ((have this ambiguous WoL/Magnai fic i wrote over the course of the 9 days it took me to play SB and still havent finished))

As an adventurer whose taste runs wider than the entirety of the Ruby Sea, being talked down to by some handsome Xaela warrior makes them want to knock the man back onto his ass like a green Flame recruit during training drills. There’s allure to bedding one of the most powerful warriors of the Steppe (the opportunity to be able to say “Yes, twas I that fucked Magnai Oronir until he cried” is not one easily passed up) even if that means bowing and scraping until the title of Khagan is clutched within their bloodied fist like the prize it is. 

The Warrior is riding on a high when the Imperials take it upon them to follow on the heels of the battle royale, guns blazing as if to intimidate the Xaela to scatter to the winds instead of fighting, and are subsequently mowed down. They nearly feel sorry for that brute of a man when he turns tail to run back to his master, figurative tail between his legs. Hien eyes the Warrior carefully, knowing their strength and trusting their judgement when they turn away from the fallen Steppe warriors and Imperial foot soldiers alike and announce, “I’ll be taking that throne of yours, dearest Sun. The Mol have no need for the space, being nomadic, but I’ve want for it regardless. You’ll acquiesce.”

There’s no room for requests and dead-end lines of questioning when they can simply pull rank and demand that which they want. Had Magnai seen fit to display something other than his overinflated ego and god-tier sexual frustration to them and their party, the Warrior would never stoop so low as to demand that of him. 

However, he’d leered at Lyse and been less than civil to Hien on a good handful of occasions which then proved reason enough for the Warrior of Light, current Khagan of the Azim Steppe in all its sun-baked glory, to sit comfortably in the exactly place Magnai had deemed fit to stare down at them from. 

It’s a power trip, something like lightning in their veins, and it’s with a carnivore’s smile that that they comment, “Well, it can’t be comfortable to stand there all day like some sort of attack dog. Why not rest?” They’ve been there for hours already, waiting on visitors and documents before heading back out to Doma for the sake of liberating it and continuing on to Ala Mhigo, and even the Warrior’s ass is starting to ache from staying seated that long. They can’t imagine Magnai’s feet faring too much better when he’s been standing still and straight as a totem since he got up from the throne. His face twists in fury and disgust, catching the obvious slight and holding it at arms length as to refuse its existence. 

“I didn’t mean it as a suggestion, brother Magnai,” they correct. “Kneel.” The obvious inequality of the situation goes flying over the Warrior’s head even as they lean to the side closest to the Oroniri man and hold out a hand once he kneels (palm down despite their want to tangle it in his hair and  _ yank─) _ .

Magnai stares at it, the gesture foreign, and the Warrior laughs. “I forgot that the Steppe has far different ways of proving loyalty. Tell me, if I commanded you to swear fealty to me and me alone… would you?” They drop their hand back to the armrest.

“Never,” Magnai spits, gauntleted hands tightened to fists and eyes narrowed enough he appears literally blind with rage. 

“Not even if I swore to give up my claim to your throne in return?”

His response is monosyllabic and drips with disdain, “No.”

The Warrior sighs and the sound carries more than just their exasperation. “What would you do, had I not won the Naadam, and still tried to lay claim to your rightful place? Spare no detail, if you would.”

“The Sun burns all that which does not belong within the reaches of His light, no matter whether they be Xaela or otherwise.”

“So you’d murder me in retribution,” they translate. “Sounds sexy.”

Magnai seems taken aback by the ready acceptance of his threat─nothing could stop him during the next Naadam or at any time afterward─and continues on in an attempt to terrify the Warrior. He feels like he’s speaking in tongues by the time they crack, a hand held over their mouth after hearing of traditional Oroniri torture methods. What they say is the direct opposite of what he expects, however, and renders his speechless in the aftermath.

“Sorry, I started tuning that out somewhere around when the third Khagan got thrown into a river,” the Warrior comments, “and by that I mean I was preoccupied by the image of you on your knees between my legs. You’re handsome, dearest Sun, but that mouth of yours is more trouble than it’s worth.”

Magnai rankles and the Warrior could swear that he’d have puffed up like Aymeric’s crotchety old cat. He opens his mouth before thinking better of it and closing it again, lips drawn into a severe scowl.

The Warrior smiles not unkindly before joking, “You’d best not frown so. I doubt early wrinkles are attractive to one’s Nhaama.” They drum their fingers on the throne before standing and turning to Magnai. Even kneeling, the Xaela man is no less a powerful presence. 

They reach out a hand (palm down again) and slide it back through his hair, gripping at the back and pulling downward with just enough force to be domineering rather than flat out painful, and Magnai  _ groans.  _ “I’d not have pegged the most Radiant Brother Magnai as a masochist.”

The Oroniri man shoots them a truly scathing look, indignation burning in his eyes when he spits curses like fire and brilliant poison in retaliation. The Warrior tugs on his hair a little harder, locking their fingers around a couple of his smaller horns as if on an afterthought, and smiles at him not at all unkindly. “What is it you require from the Sun?”

The Warrior pets at his hair, combing their fingers through it and scraping their nails along the nape of his neck absently. They take a long moment to think it through before replying, “I’ve made it clear what I wish to gain. The question  now is: will you allow me to take it of you? Regardless of our positions, you have full rights to refuse. Being Khagan does not destroy my morals, nor does it make me anything but repulsed at bringing a reluctant partner to bed.”

“You  _ dare  _ make the Sun utter a plea for your touch─”   
“Yes,” they say, “I do. I need your consent to be given freely and independently of our roles within the Steppe.” They release his hair to sit back down and cross one brightly-clothed leg over the other. “If you need refuse, it would be no strike against you as a man, or as a warrior.” They recline among the furs as if born to rule and wait for a response. If the Warrior had been watching Magnai’s face as intently as they were the curve of his lips and the strong lines of his arms where his coat and bracers don’t obscure them, they’d likely have worried about the spectrum of emotions that cycle colorfully across the Xaela’s face. As it was, they nearly zoned out thinking of exactly how wonderful said hands would look while at their hips or tied neatly to a bedpost in the time if takes Magnai to come to a conclusion. 

He’s choking on his words when he admits, “The Sun consents to your advances.”

“Oh,” the Warrior breathes, tugged out of the beginnings of a daydream by Magnai’s answer, “wonderful.” They tangle a hand in his hair again and yank him forward, leaning down to plant a deceptively gentle kiss on his forehead. “Thank you, dearest Sun.”

_ I hope I don’t ruin you for aught else.  _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me???? updating something before the 2 year mark???? wild
> 
> thanks for all your lovely and encouraging comments!!! i'm super new to xiv fandom space so the feedback has been invaluable!!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> on a completely random topic: a pal said xaela fuck using their horns and i was just "wait holy mother hydaelyn on a bagel you mean to tell me those are an erogenous zone???????" so yeah have more hair pulling, some vague and badly written oral, and another dose of me now knowing what the fuck consistent characterization is
> 
> smacked half the end on here because i need validation. the final part is where ya boi magnai gets what he oh so desperately needs >;3c

If anyone asked Magnai what he was doing during moonrise, he’d tell them anything but the truth. 

It’s hard to admit that he got hot under the collar when the Warrior of Light knotted their fingers in his hair─that he stuttered through half breaths when they pull callously at it─and rub their fingertips along his horns. He feels frustratingly at home between their thighs, mouth slick where it moves against their core in unpracticed motions, and it brings heat to his cheeks same as it does the throbbing within his pants. 

Had it been anyone else, he’d have refused. It feels like a ridiculous truth where it slides from one side of his mind to the other with all the grace of an inebriated Dotharli watchwoman, poking at his soft bits and never staying in focus. The Warrior sighs, pulling him back with misplaced care, and asks, “How’s your jaw, little Sun?”

Magnai clears his throat and tests his voice, the rumble of it comfortable in his chest and less so in this throat as he rasps through a response, “Fine.”

They smile at him and it feels like a threat where they stare down at him with blown pupils. They scratch their nails none too gently against his horns and he  _ shudders,  _ nerves singing in response to their touch as if electrified. He pulls away, close to the razor’s edge that is orgasm just from them idly exploring his body (and not even the whole of it), and they let him go. “Need a break?”

He shakes his head and even the feeling of his hair against his horns is nearly too much. Between the teasing touches and their stuttering grip against his scalp and smaller (no less sensitive) parietal horns, he’s full to bursting with the urge to touch (taste, feel, listen to them gasp below him─) and shifts subtly to all but sit upon his palms. The Warrior leans back in the throne, leaning on one arm and reaching down with the other to tease themself as if Magnai isn’t eyelevel with their need, and bites their lip to stifle a moan. Magnai wets his lips as if they’d somehow begun to go dry at the sight, salivating not unlike some base wildling. 

They’ve worked themself up nearly to a peak when they stop touching, fingers and palm sticky enough to have become a hindrance, and hold it out to him with an expression that can only be described as imperious. “Clean me up.”

Throughout their play, Magnai learned that the Warrior would never press him to do something he wasn’t  _ absolutely  _ sure he was comfortable with (as evidenced by how easily he can escape even the most punishing of grips they’ve had on his head over the past half hour, the barest hint of discomfort and they adjust to accommodate him) and wait for him to accept before hooking their fingers in his mouth. They taste strange, lack of familiarity aside, but not absolutely  _ terrible  _ and he cleans their palm with tongue and careful teeth. They give him a look so full of adoration it’s heady when he allows them to press down on his tongue and watch spit drip messily down his chin and off his scales. It’s humiliating (ambrosial, for all the pleasure it brings him) and Magnai wants to blink and find their roles reversed so fervently he nearly vibrates with it. 

He wants to wrap his hands around the Warrior’s waist and watch them come apart same as he wants to wrap them around their throat and squeeze carefully tight to hear them wheeze pleas for their Sun to give them what they need. He needs to know what they sound like when taken apart stitch by stitch until they feel just as wrecked as he is, but they’re already guiding him forward and back to their heat so confidently he follows without thought. 

They put their hands on his horns again as if they know the purpose of touching such a place, of the  _ intimacy  _ of doing so, and the sensation is enough to set him panting messily between attempts at obeisance. It’s as if Azim himself is burning behind his eyelids with how clearly he can see the Warrior taking their pleasure from him. They slide their fingertips along his jaw, calluses catching at the points and edges of his scales nearly enough to make him sigh out a moan, but no─by Hydaelyn’s grace had the Warrior been blessed with Her Light just as they had been blessed with Nhaama’s benevolence. It’s obvious in how they coax his legs apart to slot a foot between them as if finally,  _ mercifully  _ listening to his unspoken pleas to allow him pleasure of his own. 

(That is not to say that his previous place between their thighs was somehow a disservice to him, nor that it was anything but deliriously  _ perfect _ . He’d admit  under threat of death that he enjoyed playing the role of some barely-tamed khatun, the obviousness of his submission the counterpoint to his continuous attempts at snark. It’s nearly surprise that he manages to keep his hands at their lap or on his thighs rather than working at the near atrocious need having built inside his smallclothes.)

He tells himself that he’d burn the Warrior to ash given Azim grants him that right. He’s impetuous, yes, but he needs the way a drowning man does for air. He needs release, to feel the Warrior unravel in full and shake apart between his palms, and to ignore the infernal flush sitting high upon his cheekbones when they allow him a single mercy to dull the sting of their final order.

“This is all I will allow you, dearest Sun,” they all but croon, pleased expression heavily tinted by their lust, and tilt their foot upward to grind against him at the toe. “Work for it, won’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feeback me please i bring the thirst fic


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last chapter of this particular fic but it aint the end of my thirst
> 
> (or: magnai finally gets off)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya'll im so gay u dont even know. here i am thirsting after magnai like this fic will help and Yet. there will be more of this from me because magnai probably needs revenge for the good time, the WoL needs a damn break, and i wanna break lore for maximum safe, sane, and consensual fucking. 
> 
> ((hmu in the comments or on any of my socials with feedback/suggestions for further smutfic))

With all the predetermined lots the title of Warrior of Light comes with, it’s no secret that the opportunity to watch Magnai Oronir rut against their foot is not something Hydaelyn included in Her gift basket of magical shenanigans. It’s something they fought for─ _ killed  _ for─and the resulting intoxication is a welcome one. They feel nearly like they’ve consumed the whole of Wineport’s best vintage in one sitting whenever Magnai makes the barest  _ hint  _ of a sound, tension long since built into the sinuous curve of their muscle nearly tight enough to snap.

Every time he grits his teeth, choking down a moan they want to yank him up by his necklace chain and kiss him with tongue and teeth. Where he wheezes at their minute shifts in stance they want to pull their foot back and step ever so carefully on him, to knock him back with a kick to the shoulder and stand over him just to see if he’d fight back, and control the friction he’s desperately searching for. 

When he slides a hand up their thigh to tangle talon-tipped fingers in their robe, they follow so easily, leaning forward and giving, giving,  _ giving  _ until Magnai is panting into their mouth and cursing their name between breaths as if each syllable that curls its way off his tongue will prove a deterrent. The Warrior leans forward the barest hint of an ilm and asks, “If that all you’ve got, Magnai?”

No titles. 

No nicknames. 

No respect. 

They expect him to growl, possibly bare his teeth like some sort of animal, and snap at them. He doesn’t. He melts in a horribly familiar way. The way the Warrior knows they fall to pieces when someone calls their name just right, when they’re pinned down with careful grace by weapon-roughened hands, when Magnai gives them that  _ look─ _ and oh. Wow. Okay,  _ that’s  _ what this is about. 

They let him have his way, scraping nails and palms and fingertips along his horns until it feels like touching a livewire how easily it sends him quaking. They pause, pulling back  _ again  _ and Magnai honest to Azim  _ whimpers  _ (not that he’d admit it) and the Warrior burns that sound into their  _ soul  _ for how perfectly it resonates in their ears. Had the Steppe not already had its own governing deities, they’d have been sure he was some gift from an unnamed power because  _ no man  _ should be that infuriatingly handsome. 

They frown down at him as if disapproving (when, really, it’s only their own heart and its whims that they’re cross with) when he glares, chin still slick with remnants of semi-dried spit. They want to command, to demand he supplicate himself or at least stop making aborted circles with his hips every few seconds. They can feel it every time he grinds against them in desperate fits and starts and the knowledge that  _ they’re  _ the one that broke him down to this point is the headiest of rewards.

But they don’t order him around. They don’t ask anything further. They simply reach a hand down to slide toward their arousal and remark, “I’ve half a mind to finish up. It’s dreadfully uncomfortable to be sitting on your darling throne with my pants half off. Cold, too.” They give half a sigh when they find a good rhythm and settle back into the well-worn leather cushioning of their current seat, paying no mind to the mess they make whenever fluid drips between their fingers and down onto the furs. 

Magnai watches like they’re a vision akin to the cosmos at work given mortal form even as they attend to themself selfishly, beautifully, just far enough out of reach that he’d have to make his want to feel them obvious where his hands dig into his coat rather than their thighs. He’s careful to not bite his tongue when they shift and drag their foot teasingly against him, opting instead to nearly inhale his own spit in surprise and fail to catch the guttural moan that spills from his lips and reverberates deep within his chest. It’s not unlike being inebriated the night before a hunt begins, that familiar swimming sensation in his head, but he’s not used to being so open with his vulnerability. To being put in a place far from his own and finding it fits his every angle and curve. 

He wants to drink the Warrior down just as he needed to breathe them in, to steal a piece of them for himself and keep it locked inside his chest like a holy treasure. He wants to keep the memories of their uncouth customs in his mind’s eye. He wants to burn the image of them combing his hair back while he drools around them into his heart, to write song about how their orders settle like the most comfortable of shackles about his limbs when they allow him to  _ choose  _ to obey, to keep them and their compassionate pain. 

They shudder above him, head thrown back in a way that bares the tempting curve of it, and Magnai is caught precipitously by the need to bite it and watch them bruise in a way that he caused. He’s allowing them his subservience, a boon previously afforded to no living soul, and that alone should more than earn him the right to do so. 

But he does not. 

And they yank him up and onto the throne with them to palm and press at where he  _ aches  _ and their war-roughened touch is more than enough to have him biting his own sleeve and spilling in a sharp, near deafening rush. Where he’d previously been aware of their breathing, how their left leg jittered a little more than their right whenever they’d thumb over a particularly sensitive spot, he found it hard to focus on his  _ own  _ breathing for all it felt like air been punched clean out of his lungs. 

It’s euphoric when he drifts back down from the peak of post-coital bliss to see the Warrior matching his state, hazy eyes and all. They smile at him, sticky hands brushing a few loose hairs back before they kiss his gently on the forehead and say,  _ “Gods,  _ Magnai.” as if the phrase will somehow communicate the depth of their affection. “You were so good for me.”

And those words hit something deep and barely-awoken when he rumbles back a wordless response, their gentle detangling of the knots they’d worked into his hair soothing enough he’s nearly ready to sleep. They laugh and it’s not an unkind thing. “Yes, yes, I know. Washing up first, spooning  _ after.” _

“Pay tribute to the Sun,” he demands with no bite behind his words, hoping they’ll take the hint and give him more of their infuriatingly fleeting affections. 

They kiss his nose and retort, “Yes, yes, okay. Come and at least button up your─” 

They pause. 

“Holy shit did you cum in yo─”

“If you breathe a word of this to  _ anyone,  _ be they Dotharli or Oroniri, I will skin you alive.”

The Warrior smiles. “So I take it you’re up for round two?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i havent finished a fic in a veritable eternity. congrats me and all of ya'll who stuck with this. i love you and owe you my heart. 
> 
> scream @ me for more xiv content on any of my socials and hit up my imagines blog to slam requests into the inbox!

**Author's Note:**

> i am a gremlin and as such i Demand feedback in any form you are willing (and comfortable) to give. kudos, concrit, comments, bookmarks, and anything else of the sort are all rare treasures us writers covet like gems.
> 
> HMU ON:  
> twitter | https://twitter.com/FlamingAceKiri  
> personal tumblr | https://kiriami-sama.tumblr.com/  
> FFXIV IMAGINES BLOG I WILL SHAMELESSLY PLUG | https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com/  
> (send me asks please ya'll i beg of u. thirst asks are more than okay.)


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